Last month my family spent six beautiful days on vacation near Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.  Someday I'd like to take the kids to Charleston for its history, both important and terrible. Prior to the Civil War, Charleston (a 90-minute drive from Myrtle) was the capital of the slave-trade industry, with as many as 40 percent of all enslaved Africans arriving at the New World through its port. It's essential to me that my children learn the unvarnished truth about this darkness in our national history, so they can better understand America as a whole.  But not yet. At 7 and 10, they're still too young to understand and appreciate seeing the historical artifacts of slavery in person. Rather than being educational, I think Charleston's stories would be deeply upsetting to them. So we stuck to the greater Myrtle Beach area on this trip.    It's a two-day, 700-mile drive to get there, so by the time we arrived at the resort my children were eager to run, make lots of noi

We're on the downhill side of parenting.  Yesterday, my husband pointed out that we have more years behind us than in front of us when it comes to having our firstborn at home.  At age 10, there are 8 years left until he (fingers crossed) launches into the next stage of life - college, a fulfilling job, or some other as-yet-unforeseen step. Eight Christmases, eight birthdays, eight summers. And then suddenly, adulthood.  Social media regularly reminds me how small he once was, in a time I only hazily remember. Plenty of moms will tell you with sorrow in their throats how they miss those baby and toddler and preschooler ages.  I have mixed feelings. One side of my heart aches at how quickly my son is growing up, every day becoming more his own person and less mine.  But the other half of my heart knows I wouldn't relive those years even on a dare. They were a monumental struggle for me, a mountain I wasn't sure I would survive climbing. Many times I was lost in the blizzard

Good evening, DHS alumni, and happy 25th high school non-reunion. Tonight we are not standing under balloon arches, not reliving the "Around the World in One Night" senior prom, not ambling through the lower commons with wonder that we made it out of here alive.  Of course we're not discussing what didn't happen at the aborted 10-year reunion, when too few of us were interested in coming home - or too many of us never left. We're not discussing whether social media or this town, small and rural and cliquish even then, was the death of that get-together. Both can be black holes if you're not paying attention. I'm enjoying not lingering by the punch bowl and not talking about the eerie red eye of the purple and white bronco on the wall - the eye which, after a football win, glowed on the horse head that lacked any curves just like me. I'm not telling you these are real and they're fabulous. It's a pleasure not to walk down the 100 Hall, the 200 H

When he first mentioned wanting to perform at the school's annual talent show this year, I didn't think he was very serious. So I let it pass.  He had brought it up last year, too. But because the only talent he could think to show off was his impressive prowess at escaping Endermen and destroying Creepers in Minecraft, he was merely a spectator that year.  About a week after first talking about it, my fourth-grade son again mentioned his plans to try out for the show. This time I needed to listen.  He said he wanted to sing as his talent. In the last few months, my first-born has discovered YouTube music videos specific to his interests in video games. It turns out there are playlists full of Linkin Park and Evanescence songs set to Minecraft play, as well as songs written specifically for the weird characters of Rainbow Friends in Roblox. The one for Purple is his favorite. He wanted to sing one of those songs, one that had words appropriate for school.  But, until he stumble

This week, the powers that be announced Bed Bath & Beyond is closing for good. The news wasn't surprising, but I still feel disappointment. It was a store for seminal changes in life. Going to college, moving into your first apartment or home, getting married, getting divorced - any situation that required starting anew.  With its closing, a few generations of consumers lose a store closely tied to our milestones and memories. We're left with only the part that is Beyond. BBB was often the go-to place for buying (or registering to get gifts of) towels, storage options, organization, bedding, small appliances, dishes, cookware, and more. With the help of his mom, my husband bought several cart-loads of items there when he purchased his first home just before we met. We registered there for wedding gifts, most of which we still use 15 years later.   Local columnist and author Connie Schultz recently  shared a poignant story of shopping at BBB after a divorce. Shortly before

All you can do is not think about it. Don't picture your child hearing loud bangs like the biggest door slamming. Don't imagine the confusion clouding his face, quickly replaced by the understanding that he's in danger. Don't share the panic he feels when he thinks he's forgotten the active shooter drills he practiced , those terrifying moments when adults pretend that someone has arrived to hurt them even though adults are supposed to keep them safe. photo by Nicole Hester/The Tennessean via AP Don't visualize his eyes getting wide with fear and his sweet face draining of color as his teacher gathers the children into a knot and tells them to go go go silently, quickly, to their safe space, wherever that is. Don't think of the black tip of a long gun bobbing as it's carried down the hall past the cafeteria with its small seats, past the trophy case full of pride, past your child's classroom door.  Try not to imagine your child wetting her pants in s